Crooked Halos

by Charlie Cottrell

  I sat in the lobby for the better part of two hours, letting random data flow over the vid windows, and a video and audio log run to capture my surroundings. Stake outs can be the most tedious, mind-numbing things in the world; like most hard-boiled detective work, it was long periods of sitting around waiting, punctuated with brief moments of pants-wetting terror or heart-racing excitement. This particular stake out was mostly just sitting around.

  I watched the sun move with agonizing slowness across the back wall of the lobby that afternoon, saw its rays shift from bright yellow to a warm orange as it neared the horizon, and felt myself yawn as I finally gave up and rose from my seat. If Crowder or a proxy was here, he wasn’t showing himself anytime soon.

  The hand on my shoulder was a bit of a surprise, though it really shouldn’t have been. I mean, narrative convention dictates that, if you assume your mark isn’t around, they’ve probably already got their eyes on you and are just waiting for the chance to get the drop on you.

  “Mr. Hazzard?” a man I didn’t recognize said. He wore a well-fitted black suit, mirrored sunglasses, and had a haircut like a newly-discharged Marine. “I need you to come with us.” I glanced around and saw two more men, obviously pressed from the same beefy mold in the muscle factory, standing a few feet away.

  “This is one of those situations where resisting would be a mistake, right?” I asked.

  The man nodded without a hint of amusement. “That is correct, Mr. Hazzard.” One of his doppelgängers stepped up and frisked me, pulling the popgun from the holster under my arm. “Please, follow me, sir. We can do this without making a scene.”

  I sighed. “God knows I hate to make a scene,” I said with resignation.

  └●┐└●┐└●┐

  The three enforcers hustled me into an elevator and up to the fifteenth floor. I was escorted into a well-lit-but-still-beige suite. The common area of the suite was occupied by two high-backed armchairs and a long couch, forming a comfortable-if-bland conversation area. A fine area rug in pale green filled the space between the seats, and a coffee table of dark wood was centered on the rug. Two floor lamps flanked the couch, and an end table in matching wood with the coffee table lay between the two chairs. I was directed to the couch, where I slumped comfortably if sulkily into one corner and crossed my arms. Behind the high-backed chairs, a Rococo landscape filled the wall next to the bathroom.

  Occupying the chairs were a woman I couldn’t identify and a man I definitely could.

  “Dresden,” I said, nodding at him and affecting a calm, collected manner I simply was not actually feeling. I don’t think he bought it. I wouldn’t have, if I were him.

  “Eddie. I have to wonder what it is you’re doing here, now.” His voice was as deep and melodic as I remembered.

  “I’m on vacation,” I replied flippantly. “Well, a stay-cation, actually. It’s too expensive to go to Maui this time of year.” The woman in the chair next to Crowder scowled at me. “Gonna introduce me to your friend, Dresden?” I asked with a mock-polite smirk. “She seems delightful.”

  “This is Carmen,” he said, gesturing at her with the wave of a hand. She was dressed simply, in dark pants and a long-sleeved top, and her long hair was pulled back in a sensible ponytail. Her face, while not conventionally beautiful, was quite striking: her nose was sharp, her eyes were large but hooded, and her mouth was a thin line of annoyance. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, and she looked to be of Middle Eastern extraction. What I could see of her figure indicated she was not the soft, curvy sort of feminine I was used to seeing slink into my office, but rather a well-muscled, well-toned machine designed for doing terrible things to terrible people.

  “Just ‘Carmen?’” I asked. Neither of them answered, so I assumed that was all I was going to get. “Carmen the bodyguard,” I continued, digging in my pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Dresden frowned as I pulled one out and lit it, but said nothing. Carmen looked like she wanted to feed the tube of tobacco to me. I exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, “I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am, but I’m guessing it’s probably not.” I took another drag on my cigarette. “So, why are we having this little chat? Intimidation? Are you going to threaten me to drop the case for my own good or some such nonsense?” I was talking quickly, trying to hide the fact that my hands were shaking and I felt like I was about to explode. I’d spent years going over in my head what I’d say to Dresden if I ever got the chance. The questions I’d ask, the invective I’d hurl, the curses I’d conjure. In the moment, though, all I could do was ramble and hope I didn’t have a breakdown.

  Dresden laughed; I hadn’t heard that sound in years, but it was exactly as I remembered it. “Eddie, I could never threaten you. I know better. You don’t take to threats. You treat them like challenges.”

  “So, you’ve been following my career,” I said, taking another drag.

  “Of course! Look, I feel bad about how things went down back then. Honestly, though, I did you a favor, getting you kicked off the force.”

  “Right. The months of abject poverty, alcoholism, and crippling self-doubt were all just to build my character, right?”

  “The APD was gonna kill you, one way or another. If you’d stayed, you would’ve ended up crippled like me, at best,” Dresden said, all the cheerfulness drained from his voice.

  “Speaking of, how is that now?” I asked.

  In response, Dresden simply stood up, arms spread, and did a little spin for me. “Impressive, isn’t it? The latest in cybernetic enhancement and neural therapy.”

  “Not that impressive,” I replied. “I’ve stood up, like, seven or eight times today. Do a cartwheel, then we’ll talk about impressive.” Carmen shot to her feet, her hands clenched, ready to leap over the coffee table and end me. Crowder held up a hand and stopped her.

  “Eddie’s coping mechanism is sarcasm,” he said with a smile. “He likes to get under people’s skin, get them riled up, make them make a mistake. Don’t fall into the trap.”

  “He can’t spring the trap if he’s dead,” Carmen snarled.

  “So, I know you got your legs back years ago,” I said conversationally. “How’d that happen?”

  “You remember the night in the alleyway, huh?” Crowder said. I nodded. “It’s amazing what they can do with cybernetics these days.” He lifted the back of his shirt to reveal a long, nasty-looking scar running parallel to his spine. “They performed a pretty invasive procedure. Installed some nanobots that repaired my spine, then ran some nanotubing down both legs that would respond to the new signals sent by the nanobots. I can walk, run, jump, whatever. Better, faster, stronger, et cetera.”

  “How’d you afford that? Couldn’t have been cheap,” I mused.

  Crowder smiled. “It wasn’t. I had some . . . financial assistance from a friend.”

  “Classic ‘friends in high places’ scenario, huh?” I stubbed out my cigarette on the surface of the coffee table. Carmen looked ready to beat me to death with said table. “Anyway, what’s the point of all this, again?”

  “Despite what you may think, I’ve always cared about you and what happens to you,” Crowder said, taking his seat once more. “I don’t want you to pursue your case with Genevieve Pratt, because I would hate to have to kill you.”

  “Ah. So, give up the case or get killed dead, is that the threat?” I crossed my legs. “What’s in it for me to give up, since you know I’m not the sort of guy who takes an ‘or else’ threat very well?”

  “How about a million dollars?”

  That elicited an arched eyebrow.

  “You’re just making stuff up now, Dresden,” I said.

  “I’m not bullshitting you, Eddie,” Crowder replied, motioning toward one of his enforcers. The guy stepped forward with a small datachip case, about the size of a pack of cards, and handed it to me. “That case contains ten datachips. Each one has $100,000 on it. No tracing software or identifying markers on any of them, totally free and clear, no taxes
or anything.”

  I took the case from the thug and turned it over and over in my hands. “And all I have to do is walk away, huh?” I asked.

  “That’s all,” Crowder replied, that easy smile back on his face.

  I thought about it, seriously, for almost a minute. In the years since I’d met Vera Stewart, I’d gone from being months behind on all my bills to having a positive bank balance. I wasn’t rich by any means—mostly because I refused to use the Organization’s funds as my own, Boss or not—but I wasn’t one missed paycheck away from angry loan sharks coming for my knees. This kind of money…well, let’s just say I could live comfortably for the rest of my days on that. So could Maya and Ellen. But there were consequences for this sort of thing. You couldn’t just shake hands with the devil and not expect to end up whiffing sulfur.

  I tossed the datachip case onto the coffee table. “No deal,” I said, sitting back on the couch again and throwing one arm over the back. “Might as well go ahead and kill me now, Dresden, ‘cause I won’t be giving up.”

  “Fine,” Carmen said, rising smoothly and pulling a long, wicked-looking knife from someplace unseen.

  “No!” Crowder snapped, on his feet in an instant and a hand around Carmen’s wrist. She stopped, giving him the most vicious, feral look I’d ever seen on a human face, and I’ve met my bill collectors. “Eddie may not make the best choices, but I still consider him a friend. He will not be harmed.” Carmen wrenched her hand away from his, the knife disappearing somewhere on her person as she turned away and stalked into the adjoining room. Crowder looked back at me with something approaching a sheepish grin. “Sorry, she gets carried away. She thinks what I’m doing here, with you, is pretty ridiculous and that I shouldn’t be wasting my time.”

  “She’s right,” I said, fishing out another cigarette. “If I were you, I’d have me killed and my body decomposing in a bathtub full of lye in a heartbeat. You’re the one making a mistake this time, Dresden. I’m going to be a real pain in your ass.”

  “Maybe so, but I can’t just have you killed like that. It’s not in my nature, not after everything I owe you for saving my life.” Crowder sagged slightly; I could see the weight of whatever was going on here resting squarely on his shoulders.

  “So, I’m free to go, then?” I asked, exhaling smoke.

  Dresden nodded. “But if you show up at Pratt’s room next week, I won’t be able to stop Carmen. Whatever she does to you will be your own fault.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” I said, rising. I paused for a beat, then said, “You don’t have to do this, Dresden.” One last-ditch effort, even if I already knew it wasn’t worth it.

  “Yes, I do,” he answered, not looking at me. “She took everything from me, and I want payback on the people who ruined my life.”

  I scratched at my jaw. “How’s that?”

  “Who do you think was responsible for me losing my legs back then? It was Genevieve Pratt.”

  VIII.

  I didn’t want to let my little encounter with Crowder and his minions to rattle me, so I resolved to keep a surreptitious eye on him despite his warnings. I also decided I needed to know more about his cronies, especially that Carmen. Luckily, I had an army of highly-trained individuals to aid me in my research and reconnaissance. Well, okay, not an army, per se. More like two employees, a team of highly-trained ninja, and a few experts within the Organization I was halfway willing to trust, which is really just as good.

  Ellen, Maya, and Kimiko were all gathered in the office when I returned from Crowder’s hotel. Two of them—Ellen and Kimiko—wore expressions of mixed concern and annoyance, while Maya seemed to be in her own little world, as per usual.

  “Hey, ladies, what’s up?” I asked as I doffed my coat and hat.

  Kimiko stared a hole through me as Ellen let me have it. “You can’t just wander off like that!” she snapped. “You have to tell us where you’re going.”

  “I was on a stake out, checking out Crowder and his goons,” I said. “I was fine.”

  “But you could’ve been hurt,” Ellen pressed. “From now on, no wandering off without telling at least one of us where you’re going, understood?” She wagged a finger under my nose.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I muttered.

  Ellen sat back, mollified for the moment. “Good. So, what did you find out?”

  I gave them a rundown of my encounter with Crowder and his people.

  “He’s got a score to settle with Ms. Pratt. Whatever’s going on between the two of them, we’re caught in the middle and probably gonna catch hell from both sides. But we have to push forward. So, assignments. Kimiko, keep one of your guys on Crowder, and put another one on his right-hand gal, Carmen.” Kimiko nodded and strode off to contact her ninja squad. “Ellen, you’re grand central station. All information goes through you, and you’re coordinating all of our efforts. Maya, I need you to do a little digging for me.” I tossed the young computer expert a datachip. “That contains video footage I took of Crowder and the crew he has protecting him. I want to know who they are, where they came from, when they went on their last date, anything you can dig up that will give me any kind of edge. I’m gonna need all the help I can get.” Maya acknowledged her instructions and immediately disappeared behind a halo of vid windows. “Ellen, can you contact Captain O’Mally and see what the APD has on Crowder’s retirement from the force?”

  “I’ll ask, but I might get stonewalled,” she replied. “You know O’Mally hasn’t really been free with police resources lately. Chief Esperanza has been cracking down on freelancers like you.”

  “Why do you think I’m asking you to take care of it? He likes you better than he does me.”

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  └●┐└●┐└●┐

  While everyone else was engaged in research, I contacted one of the Organization’s datamining experts, a guy named Steve “the Trowel” Dugger. I usually gave the guy a wide berth—especially after he “accidentally” infected my personal computer with a virus that directed every vid window I pulled up to the most disturbingly hardcore pornography possible—but he was the guy who could probably handle my next request with the most effectiveness.

  I knew from looking at the Organization’s, um, organization chart, that Dugger was Maya’s former supervisor. The young computer expert was with my team, now, in part thanks to a generous, semi-anonymous “grant” from Vera Stewart after the Kirkpatrick case a couple years back, and she’d proven herself invaluable in that time, if still a little shy and awkward. I chalked that up to youth and the fact that some folks just don’t like talking to people.

  Dugger, on the other hand, was a virtual hermit, making Maya seem like the flightiest social butterfly by comparison. He was a surly, gruff man with a distinct phobia of having his image or voice captured on recording media; he never took vid calls, and always used a voice modulator similar to the one Vera had employed as the Boss to keep his natural voice off of an audio-only call. His preferred method of communication was text or email, and as such, very few people actually even knew what the guy really looked or sounded like. Maya knew him, of course, from her time as his subordinate, and she had described his voice as “kinda high-pitched” and “putting me in mind of a, um, twelve-year-old girl at a boy band concert,” while his appearance reminded her of “a tall, skinny boy with really bad skin.” I wondered how much of his camera-shy attitude could be chalked up to those descriptions.

  Regardless, I sent Dugger a quick message with a short video file from my interview with Crowder attached and asked him to see if he recognized any of the people in it. I had a hunch that at least a couple of the enforcers were local boys, maybe working freelance. Dugger replied back within ten minutes, confirming my suspicions: all three of the interchangeable thugs who’d escorted me up and down the elevator at the hotel were freelance enforcers who had occasionally done grunt work for the Organization. According to Dugger’s records, all three had been cut by V
era Stewart shortly before her death for questionable actions on several of their assignments with the Organization, including killing a couple of people outside the purview of their given tasks. They were, as I’d suspected, quite bad news.

  Maya’s information on Carmen was even more interesting, though.

  “She’s…not in any systems,” Maya said, frowning. “Which, um, shouldn’t be possible, sir.” The idea of someone leaving no digital footprint had Maya feeling more than a little unsettled. I understood and sympathized: in this day and age, how could someone avoid leaving any trace of themselves out there on the net? No driver’s license, no birth certificate, no background check…as far as digital information went, Carmen was a ghost.

  “So, we’ve got absolutely no idea who she might be?” I asked. Maya shook her head ruefully.

  “Sorry, Eddie,” she apologized. “As far as the digital world is concerned, Carmen doesn’t even exist.”

  I rubbed my jaw thoughtfully. “Okay. I think you’re going to have to dig deeper. She had an accent I couldn’t identify. Think you can pull some of the audio from that recording I made and run it through some sort of analyzer? Maybe we can figure out where she’s from, at least.”

  Maya nodded and started to work on the task, leaving me to ponder how my arch-enemy had gotten a hold of someone like Carmen.

  └●┐└●┐└●┐

  “Okay, so, how does she do it?” I asked, conferencing with Maya and Ellen. “How does someone who’s clearly received some combat training from some military organization manage to stay completely and totally off the grid?”

  “It shouldn’t even be possible,” Maya said, strain evident in her voice. “Cities are filled with, y’know, cameras, recording devices, and things that identify passing individuals almost constantly. But she’s not in any database, and aside from the recording you gave me, I can’t find any images of her anywhere, either.” Our scrub of the audio hadn’t really turned up anything useful. Carmen hadn’t spoken enough for the program to be able to pinpoint her accent. The video of Carmen hadn’t really been much better; I have some of the best recording software available—thanks in large part to Maya—but Carmen’s image came out fuzzy and distorted. We’d cleaned up a still image of her as best we could, but it wasn’t hi-def and it sure wasn’t going to be much help. If you squinted at it just right, you could make out her specific features, but it was rough.